


Red Nights

by Damonicus, EndoratheWitch



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Under the Red Hood
Genre: Drugs, F/M, Gang Violence, working for Joker
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-11
Updated: 2020-04-11
Packaged: 2021-03-02 04:02:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,320
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23598811
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Damonicus/pseuds/Damonicus, https://archiveofourown.org/users/EndoratheWitch/pseuds/EndoratheWitch
Summary: A certain red helmeted man drops in on a gang exchange of illegal goods during the gang wars that are tearing Gotham City apart. Outnumbered, but with surprise on his side, he just might succeed in his task...but not easily.
Kudos: 6





	Red Nights

**Author's Note:**

  * For [EndoratheWitch](https://archiveofourown.org/users/EndoratheWitch/gifts).



> This chapter takes place approximately two weeks before the devastating earthquake in "Tearing Into Your Soul" end of Book II by EndoratheWitch.

Red Nights

In a cul-de-sac parking lot, flames crackled in the gutted engine mount of a car chassis to cast dancing shadows against the brick walls of the surrounding old tenement buildings. Six men stood at the front end of the ruined vehicle to face the sole alleyway that provided a path for a shiny, bronze SUV with dark tinted windows to roll into the parking lot. The vehicle stopped two vehicle lengths from the waiting men, its engine a steady rumble until the driver turned it off. All four doors opened, out of which stepped four more men, each one wearing a long-sleeved red and black flannel shirt over a blue t-shirt. Their pants held no uniformity, however, ranging from black denim to gray cargo pants. The driver opted for jungle camouflage pants tucked into polished, black combat boots. The clean-shaven man wore a black bandana over close cropped black hair and wore his dog tags like a badge of honor, though his three companions had opted to wear various silver and gold necklaces around their necks. 

The driver lifted his chin a fraction in a greeting to the six men by the makeshift fire receptacle. He noted that a spit had been placed over the fire, though nothing roasted there at the moment. He felt a smirk tug at the corner of his lips upon seeing the remains of fast food wrappers lying on the ground nearby some cheap lawn chairs to the side of the gutted car. 

“Any trouble finding your way, chingon?” asked one of the six, a man of slim build in a short-sleeved denim shirt and sporting a faux, blond mohawk. “The city ain't exactly safe for the smaller crews right now.” 

The man who had stepped out of the front passenger seat of the SUV snorted. He looked to be a pale, skinnier version of the driver, and with a wisp of a mustache dusting his upper lip. “Isn't safe for anyone right now, but I think it's the mob boys who're havin' the worst time, yeah? Killin' each other off and the big man himself, that Falcone guy, doin' nothin' 'bout it?” 

Another one of the SUV passengers, with a shiny silver eyebrow piercing shrugged. “Maybe he's cleaning house, Luis? Lettin' all the trash clean itself up.” 

The man in the denim shirt shook his head. “Don't really matter either way, right? We're here now, so we can do business where we couldn't before. All kinds of profits to be had, even for folks like us.” A few of the men on both sides nodded and the driver smiled. 

“On to business then. We have a party to get to after this—we have a few cases of liquor in the back that were misplaced recently. And we don't want 'em to go to waste.” 

The man in denim chuckled. “I hear that.” He turned to look back at one of the other men in his crew. “Dalton, get the case, man.” 

Dalton, a six foot man with brown hair and a non-descript face, but who wore a Muppets t-shirt, bent over the grasp a small, beige suitcase. He picked it up and stepped forward to stand next to the front man. “Here, Neil.” 

Neil nodded to the driver of the SUV, who made a motion with his head towards the back of the bronze vehicle. Someone inside that Neil had not seen yet handed a black duffel bag out of the open door to him. The driver took the bag and smiled across the intervening space at the other spokesman. He took three easy steps forward, and with a show of being non-threatening, he unzipped the bag to hold it up enough for the other man to see what looked like plastic packaged electronic components. 

“If those work, it's worth the cost, Carlos,” Neil said with a smile and took the suitcase from Dalton, unclasped the suitcase fasteners, and opened it enough to show Carlos and his gang the container held cash in uniform bundles. 

Carlos nodded. “They do, it's just we don't do that kinda work, man. But I know you are connected with some folks who like those bigger, more nuanced jobs.” He laughed. “I'm a simple man, I just like money, booze, my girl, my truck, and basketball. You can handle the fancy jobs, Neil.” 

Neil smirked. “Hey, I don't see why we can't all profit here, right? You can keep it simple and me and my boys? We keep it simple too. We just find the right shit to sell to whoever needs it. It all works out.” He nodded and said, “So. Let's do this. You and your boys can go get smashed and we can hit the bar. Who knows, chingon? Maybe this'll be the beginning of a profitable alliance—the mob sure can't keep their shit together, so that makes room for us.” 

As the two men stepped closer together to make the exchange, another man narrowed his eyes as he watched the event unfold—much calmer and easier in their interaction than he thought the two gangs would be toward each other on most days, but Gotham City had seen some recent changes. From his vantage point on the roof one of the tenement buildings, he took a breath, exhaled, took aim, and pulled the trigger to the weapon in his gloved hands. 

A small, metallic canister hit the paved ground two feet behind Neil with a dull thud and stuck fast. Upon impact—as a number of the gang members let out expletives and flinched—the canister expelled red colored gas from both ends. Three more canisters slammed into the ground in a triangular pattern around the gang members and blasted their crimson contents into the air. Wherever the gas touched skin, the assembled men felt painful itching, followed by irritated eyes, burning noses, and raw throats. One gang member looked up to see with already blurring vision a figure in a metallic red helmet, black leather jacket, and black fatigue pants dropping from the roof of a three floor building to grab the fire escape on the way down, and drop a half-breath later to the ground in an easy roll. 

“There!” shouted the gang member as he pulled his sidearm, a simple snub nosed .357 revolver. He coughed and hacked out through an inflamed throat. “Shoot that motherf--!” His exclamation cut off as a hollow point round ripped into his upper thigh; he staggered back one step and fell with a cry of agony. Neil squinted, his Glock already in his hand and saw the red helmeted figure. Without thinking about it, the gang leader pulled off three rounds before his coughing doubled him over and the gas grew thick enough that he had trouble seeing through the noxious, burning cloud. Despite his burning, watery eyes and the red cloud of gas, he saw Dalton drop when a spatter of blood erupted from his chest. The tall man gasped, made a whimpering sound, and dropped to the ground with a wheezing gasp that ended in a wet sounding gurgle. 

“Shit!” Neil choked out and took aim again, but the heavy red cloud—as well as its irritating effects—obscured his vision. He heard more cries of pain and both gangs shot in the direction the red helmeted figure had been seen a moment earlier. 

The man in the red helmet felt the heavy, bruising impact of two rounds against his ballistic weave armor. He grunted at the force of the attack, but his aim remained true. Two more of Carlos' gang went down with two shots and then Neil's right hand man with a hollow point round to his heart. The helmeted man moved, the sound of his combat boots striking pavement lost in the sounds of gunfire and shouting. 

He heard the impact of rounds striking the building to his right as he ran behind a dumpster and holstered one of his pistols. By the time he sprinted out from behind the dumpster, he had another canister in one hand and fired off four more rounds, dropped two more bodies with torso shots. He felt another impact against his left shoulder, probably a random shot rather than a targeted attack if the gas was doing what it ought to be to his targets. Caught off balance, he threw the grenade wide of his target, Neil; it disappeared into the red cloud of gas and went off with a dull thumping sound. He may have missed his target, but he smiled behind his mask when he heard a couple of people cry out in pain and surprise. 

Still on the move (a stationary target was a dead target, he thought), he reached up to tap a button on the side of his helmet at the right temple. Through the lenses of his enclosed helmet, his vision altered to show him heat signatures. The brightest source, a blot of white and bright yellow, had to be the fire in the gutted car, but he saw others—the SUV's engine and other, moving sources of red and orange. Those were what he needed to take down and he saw at least seven still moving, with perhaps another one or two in the SUV. 

Out of the gas cloud only a few steps from the helmeted man staggered one of the gang members. The young man blinked his eyes, lifted a pistol to fire...a moment too late as the helmeted man put a 9mm round into the gang member's chest and neck. 

Six to go. 

The SUV's engine roared to life. The man in the red helmet rushed into the gas cloud to take up a position behind the gutted car body with the fire burning in its engine housing. He peaked around the back corner of the car, saw someone facing away from him while waving an arm around; probably holding a gun, he realized. The shouting from the gang members on both sides had degenerated into fits of coughing, punctuated with some quick exclamations, one of which the man in the helmet heard, “Find 'em!” A cough. “Careful, don't...” cough, “...shoot us!” 

The SUV's headlights came on, a dull glare through the gas cloud, though the illumination served poorly to reveal the gangs' attacker. The man in the red helmet took aim to fire at the man waving his arm around and froze when he felt a gun barrel jab into the back of his neck. 

“Got you, you piece of--” The man in the red helmet spun in place while snapping his left forearm up to connect with his attacker's forearm. The pistol went off, made his ears ring and his eyes blink at the noise and momentary pain, but as he completed his spin, he jammed the barrel of his free weapon into the gang member's chest and fired three times, all heart shots. A small spray of blood misted over his right arm as the man fell dead. 

He dove to his left side and rolled to his feet in a crouch to face the SUV again and fired off a few more rounds to give himself some cover. He moved in a crouch walk behind the car again as a few shots randomly struck the brick wall of the building behind him. He changed magazines in both weapons in less than three heartbeats and listened. He heard movement and an effort to refrain from coughing not far away...just on the other side of the gutted car. He risked a look, popped his head up to look through the door's glassless frame. His eyes widened as he saw the business end of an assault shotgun aimed at his head. He ducked down as the weapon blasted, a slug propelled through the space his head had been in a half-second before to mash bits of brick from the wall nearby. 

“Got you now!” A cough, but another blast and a slug ripped through the gutted car less than two feet from the armored man's torso. He dropped to the ground and fired off two rounds from each of his weapons. Three shots tore into the flesh and bone of the shotgun holder's feet and ankles. The man dropped with a scream of pain that ended as two more 9mm rounds hit him in the nose and the mouth. 

Four left, the man in the red helmet thought as he moved back in the direction where he had first dropped into the area. 

A flare—of all things, he thought with a frown behind his mask—went streaking through the gas cloud to ricochet off a wall and spin straight up into the air. His frown deepened as he noted the gas cloud already dissipating. Not five paces away, crouched behind a ratty looking recliner, a gang member leaned out to fire at him. Three torso shots hit him with bruising force, knocked the wind from him, but he fired his left sidearm. The first shot went wide, but the next took his opponent in the shoulder. He stepped closer, struggled to inhale a breath, and put two more shots into the man's chest. He kicked the gang member's head with his boot to be sure. 

The man in the red helmet pivoted to his right, weapons up as he saw Neil and a woman who might have been attractive at one time, but who had the look of someone who had used too many drugs and seen the bottom of a few too many bottles of liquor, with an AR-15 in her hands. His eyes widened behind his mask as he threw himself to the left and fired as his body went parallel to the ground. 

One shot took Neil in the stomach, but did not put him down, while another shot tore into the woman's right thigh. Still, both of them fired off their weapons. A half-dozen torso shots, a round against his helmet, and another round burning across his right calf left him on the ground, gasping. His ears still ringing from the shot near his head earlier and the bruising impact against his helmet made his vision blurry, but he emptied his magazines at the two. The woman went down with three shots in her torso while Neil took a shot in his shoulder and in the hollow of his neck. He dropped, gurgling blood as he tried to focus on aiming at the man in the red helmet. Neil's fingers grasped for his gun, but he couldn't get a firm grip. He could only watch as his killer sat up with a pained grunt and exchanged his magazines for fresh ones. Neil couldn't even cuss the man out as another 9mm round ended the gang leader's career. 

The man in the red helmet looked down at his calf. A deep graze, but no penetration. He shook his head. Have to work in some light armor on the pants, he thought with a small shake of his head. Down to one, no two. The woman must have been in the SUV. Though the cloud was dissipating, enough of the gas remained that he kept his thermals activated on his mask. He felt anger, not so much with the gang members, but with himself for what he thought was a sloppy performance. 

Time to get the last ones. 

He moved carefully, albeit with a slight limp, into the remaining clouds of gas. He thought he heard a grunt from somewhere behind the SUV. He crouched down, looked under the vehicle, and saw an unmoving body lying on the ground at the back of the SUV. Random hit, friendly fire? He couldn't be certain, but that left one... 

He heard the scrape of a boot against pavement and turned to fire at the last gang member. The man took four shots and fell against the helmeted man. The gang member hadn't fired, but either way he was dead. 

A breath stealing blow struck him in the kidney. He staggered a step forward and turned to see a blur as something struck his helmet across the forehead. He saw stars and fired his weapon, but as he pulled the trigger, a bludgeoning object smashed down on his wrist. The man in the red helmet dropped his pistol and lashed out with a front snap kick, connected with his attacker, heard a grunt. He turned his kick into a forward lunge to snap his right arm forward to smash his elbow into the gang member's head. Though his wrist hurt, he clenched his fist and bashed his gloved knuckles into his last opponent's nose, followed up with a kick to the man's groin that doubled him over. A groan, almost a whimper escaped the man's lips just before the helmeted man spun planted the heel of his boot into his last enemy's chest to smash the man against the SUV. As he brought his right arm up to put two shots into the man's head, he stopped, gun held steady when he noted the man he had been fighting still held a steel baton in one hand and wasn't a man after all. 

He looked to be no more than a boy of thirteen or fourteen. 

“Fuck,” the helmeted man said under his breath. The boy lay there, barely conscious, probably had a concussion, and maybe a broken rib or two from the kick, but he would survive. 

He looked around, saw no other enemies, and bent to retrieve his dropped pistol. He holstered his weapons, disengaged the thermal optics in his mask, and took a deep breath as he looked for the dropped bag that he had come to acquire from the gang members—and the money, too. A slight breeze began to clear up the gas quicker, but he didn't see either the case or the bag anywhere. 

“Where could they...?” he asked aloud to himself and then caught a faint wisp of movement from the corner of his eye. His hands snapped to his pistols as he turned to look for what must be someone he had missed. But who he saw could not have been a member of either of the gangs. On the fire escape that he had used to drop into the parking lot stood a figure in an armored suit; a black and orange helmet, what looked to him to be metallic mesh torso covering, similar metal mesh pants, knee high combat boots, a web belt that carried ammunition and an assortment of gear, a single semi-automatic pistol on the left hip, and—curiously--the hilt of a sword over their shoulder. From the stance and the cut of the outfit, the man in the red helmet felt certain the figure was a woman. 

In one hand, she held the bag that bore the stolen electronic components. 

She waved at the man and called out, “Maybe next time, Red Hood.” She flexed her free arm and lifted into the air. Red Hood noticed that she held onto a cable that carried her up to the very roof from which he had observed the gangs' meeting. He thought about shooting the woman, but refrained, not because the thief was a woman, but because he didn't see any reason to kill anyone he didn't know anything about. The gang members stood in the way of what he wanted and they had shot at him; fair game, he surmised. The kid was too young to make those decisions all on his own, which meant Red Hood wouldn't kill him. 

And the thief? He holstered his weapons again and decided to vacate the area. Tonight was a bust, at least partly, but he smiled beneath his helmet when he saw the money case lying partly under one of the downed gang members. 

“Yeah, next time.”


End file.
